Season’s don’t fear the reaper.

“The more you know who you are, and what you want, the less you let things upset you.” – Bob Harris, Lost in Translation

When my grandmother passed away I don’t even think I shed a tear.  I knew it was coming, but I’m pretty sure we all did.  And it’s not like I didn’t care about my Grandma.  She was always cool.  We played games.  I spent summer weeks there.  Maybe it was the distance?   But even when I went to her funeral, I felt unmoved (though the service come faith propaganda surely didn’t help).  While other’s cried, I remained rather emotionless.  I’m still not sure whether I should feel guilty for this or not.

This, naturally, begs the question about whether I’ve become cold or not.  I’d like to think that I haven’t.  There are still moments in storytelling that draws the occasional tear from me.  There are other times in recent history where I Niagara Falls temporarily relocated to my tear ducts.  So really, what is it?  Have I just become numb come to terms to the idea of deaths and people dying?  I’ve buried my brother-in-law, my mother-in-law, my uncle, and now my grandmother in roughly a decade and not once did I get upset about it.  I dunno.  Questioning it here hasn’t really brought any clarity to me.

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